


Cut Scenes and Confessions

by lookingforatardis



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Cut Scenes, IBFF, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Sundance - Freeform, premiere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-15 10:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: Upon seeing the film’s premiere, two things are certain: Luca cut specific scenes, good scenes, even a very vulnerable and important one to Armie; and, Armie and Timmy haven’t been completely honest with their hearts. "Luca, why did you cut that scene?” the question the started it all.





	1. The Premiere

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you to the anons over the months who spurred this on and especially Marre93 on tumblr for the support. 
> 
> This will alternate POV's chapter to chapter, just so you know.

The night before the premiere, I sleep only a few hours. Luca insisted on us watching the movie for the first time in the theater,  _ full impact _ he said, though we’d seen parts of it pieced together over the months. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely certain I was prepared, wasn’t certain I wasn’t either, though. 

On the day of, we had some photos that had to be taken but nothing major. It would be a calm day up until the actual premiere, at least I was told as much from the call sheet. Photos were easy— pose and look happy; it had been awhile since I’d seen him, looking happy wouldn’t be a stretch. His son was only a few days old and he flew in late to spend more time with Elizabeth and the kids. I understood. 

The reunion would be fine, I told myself. The real kicker would be the premiere, when I'd have to sit next to him. At least with casual photos I didn't have to worry about him accidently touching me the wrong way or looking at me or sitting too close to me during scenes I’d rather not think about right now. 

The day drags on but I don't really feel time passing at all; it's as if I'm floating through it, almost unaware of what's going on. I answer questions and try to act charming like Armie always does and let others take the lead when they can. When I see him, I try to catch my breath, try not to let them notice the way my cheeks flush and heart races. It had been too long, and he looks tired, looks worn. His arm is in a sling and it makes my bones ache to think about his injury, how he’d called me from the hospital to tell me his surgery went well and his son was healthy in the same breath. I’m afraid to hold him, to hurt him, our hug upon seeing each other making him hiss and my face burn as I jump back. He tells me it’s fine, but I can see it hurts. It’s okay, I guess we’re all hurting now that it’s over, this final piece of the puzzle to be revealed once and for all so we’re done with it. 

Every minute that passes is a minute of adrenaline and anxiety mixed together. To finally be back with all of them, to be back with him, feels unreal. At the same time, I cannot stop myself from wondering which takes I’ll see on the screen, which scenes he will have cut, how vulnerable I’d been. I was afraid, terribly afraid, that I would walk out and once again feel the need to recover, this time alone, his responsibility now to his children and not me. I let my mind wander during the shoot, let it go to places it probably shouldn’t and stop it only when it starts to be too distracting. It isn't until Luca pulls me aside, an hour before the premiere, that I seem to come back to my body. "Are you alright?" he asks, his hand gently and reassuring on my arm. I shrug and say  _ yeah. _ "Timothée…have you been well?" I'm taken aback by his question, the sincerity and genuine concern worrying me. Perhaps I wasn't as skilled at hiding my distress as I'd thought, maybe he knew I was lost all day. "You've not seemed yourself today— are you doing okay?" I look away and think about how to answer, knowing all the while my silence is answer enough for him.

"I'm okay," I say quietly. "It’s just a lot, you know. Watching it the first time and everything."

"Try to enjoy this, Timmy. You only see this movie in a theater for the first time once— enjoy this moment," he tells me. I know he knows exactly why I’m nervous, and a part of me wishes he’d push the subject so I had an excuse to talk about Armie. It’s for the best he doesn’t ask, even though we both know what I’d say anyway. 

"I know, I'm trying," I tell him. He pulls me for a hug and pats my back, whispering  _ try harder _ as he pulls back. I feel my gaze narrow as he walks away, the weight of his words bringing the recognition that I wasn't hiding my distress at all, that it was free for anyone to see, that I needed to  _ try harder _ to make it seem like I was enjoying myself. I get ready for the premiere with his words in my ears. I push all the heartache of the past away, zeroing in on this project that I was so incredibly proud of, that I loved more than I was able to even express. I try to focus on the good, on the memories of dinners at Luca's and rainstorms and watching daily's. I think about the road ahead, how many festivals we would go to, how this might be the start of something huge— what if there were awards, what if there were sequels, Luca had mentioned as much. I think about possibility and love and laughter and know that he's right— this is a moment to be embraced and enjoyed and cataloged away for dark days when nothing was okay. When I walk over to the group to go to the venue, I feel the excitement build. The smiles and nervous energy everyone shares is contagious and I can't help but feel lighter than before, almost giddy. So many in our little group hadn't seen the final cut yet— this was a huge moment for all of us. Enjoy it, he said. I try— I try to soak up every second of it as we get in the cars and arrive and have our pictures taken. I enjoy every second, letting it replace all the pain with sparks of happiness. When he puts his arm around me for pictures, I think of the comfort it's always brought instead of the weight of what it'll never be. When he smiles I remember the late nights and coffee runs, not the haunting dreams. When he whispers in my ear as we walk to our seats, I revel in the love I feel instead of the inevitable goodbye. It's all good, tonight. Just tonight, it's all good.

I'm not stupid, I could see the anxiety on his face all day. I knew he was struggling from time to time, moments of calm crossing his features between periods of panic. I couldn't bring myself to calm him down, or ask if he was alright. All day, I knew if I asked, it would only hurt me later. So I let him suffer in silence, let him go on and deal with it on his own— he had for 29 years before meeting me, one day wouldn't kill him. Those lost moments always faded quickly, anyway, and were soon replaced by a giddy smile or lit eyes. I knew he was probably just nervous, so I tried not to feel guilty about it. But sitting next to him, waiting for the lights to dim, I feel the anxiety rolling off him in waves and I can't stop myself from stealing a glance, from placing my hand on his knee, from being the comfort he needs. When he looks at me, covering my hand with his own, I feel like I might cry. It's the first substantial look we've exchanged all day and I feel it cover me in something I can't quite identify. I can't decide if it makes me cold or warm, if his eyes settle my spirits or cause distress. I can't see straight when he looks at me like this. He leans over and puts his head on my shoulder for a mere second before sitting back up and bumping our shoulders. I feel my entire world shake with the movement, his anxiety leaving his body and entering mine. Unconsciously, I stare in front of me and squeeze his knee, my heart racing. "Hey," his voice comes through, shattering my vision. "You okay?" His hand is warm covering mine and I feel broken. I shake my head pull my hand back, blinking a few times and plastering a smile on my face for anyone who might look up at us. It was going to be okay, I would be fine. I just needed the lights to kill so I could be hidden. "Timmy," he whispers, tense. He turns towards me and lets his leg move to mine, pressing our feet next to each other. "Breathe," he says. I nod and try to settle my heart rate, try not to think about how everything changes every day with us, how we never get to be the same anymore. I close my eyes for a moment and feel the stress leave my body when he touches my shoulder gently. I sag against the seat and nod at nothing. I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes, sitting up straight and turning to my left, ignoring him and joining a conversation. I feel him retreat and know that I shouldn't shut him out, but I don't know how else to cope right now. There were cameras everywhere— anyone could capture our subtle touches, anyone could see the way I looked at him. They would know for sure, if I let them see, they would know.

When the movie starts, I settle into my seat and swallow hard, the sound of Hallelujah Junction bringing the emotion out of me immediately. I take a shaky breath and steal a glance at him when I see Esther and I on screen, watching him exit the car. He's looking at me already, a small smile rising to his lips when I make eye contact. In the dark, I let myself look. I  look at his lips, the way his hair was pushed back, how his ears were pink under my gaze. I look back at him, terrified. Two hours. We would have two hours in the dark where no one but us and those closest to us could see. I could steal glances, I could let my foot wander to his, I could sigh and no one would know. I wonder if he'd let me— if he would know and understand that when our first kiss played out on screen I would be remembering the take where Luca told us to calm down, not the take that was shown. I wonder if he would know I'd be thinking about how he trembled the night we practiced, how he cried and told me he was scared to let the world see him like this. I wonder if he would think about the night I whispered that I loved him.

As the movie plays out, I'm hyper-aware of every centimeter between us. The volleyball scene makes me flinch and I feel his eyes on me, lighting me on fire. My mouth goes dry during the first kiss, my eyes darting to him at the slightest movement, realizing he's touching his lips and looking down. My heart races and doesn't stop, not until the lunch scene is over where his foot had been rubbing against mine, the footage lost in the film but imprinted on my memory, the rise and fall of my chest on screen anything but acting. I suck in a sudden breath during the kitchen foot massage scene when his leg brushes against mine, bumping knees at first, then steadying out to keep contact from our ankles to thighs. I worry that I might combust, that I might catch fire from the sparks he's creating with his eyes as he watches me, how his leg shifts and I feel it all over my body. I fear I might not be able to stop my body from reacting, that I might sigh or worse, moan. I feel every second of the movie in the movement of his body next to me, in the tension he's creating, whether purposefully or inadvertently it doesn't matter. When the scene with Marzia plays, I look at him openly, so he knows I'm watching. I see his jaw clench, watch as his eyes skirt over to me before returning to the screen and then finally, settling on staring at our knees pressed together as the me on screen undoes her bathing suit. I see him take a deep breath and let it out, his eyes darting back up to the screen, watching the final moments of the love scene. I watch him shift. 

I watch him look at me when it's over, something in his eyes I'm afraid to identify. We hold eye contact, the sound of me playing the piano finally causing us to look away. We watch the scene, watch as our characters meet on the balcony. I feel my eyes slip shut when he puts his hand over mine on screen, a strangled breath escaping my lips when I feel his hand reach out and touch my knee, the connection between the screen and reality making it hard to remember that it was all acting, that he had been acting, that this wasn't real, that he wasn't dying to touch me as badly as I was dying to touch him. I open my eyes and watch as our characters walk through the hall and into the bedroom, my heart racing, his hand retreating from my body, the absence sending shockwaves over me. I look at him, carefully, noting how his hands are in fists, how his chest lifts and falls with every breath. I look back at the screen and watch as I lean into him and his arms encircle me, feeling his leg press against mine in the theater. His lips ghost my throat on screen and I'm on fire, pressing my leg back against his, needing something,  _ anything _ . When he asks if he can kiss me, I look over at him, see him staring at the ground, his jaw clenched. I watch us kiss, feel the memory in the space between us, in the way his leg twitches against mine. I can feel eyes on me in this theater but don't care; the only ones that matter right now are his, and they're staring at the screen, watching as Oliver-him commands my shirt off, his hands skating over my body. I can still feel them, his hands, as I had every night since we filmed the scene. I can't stop myself from reaching out and touching his thigh under the arm rest, hearing him sigh next to me at the contact. His hand covers my fingers, squeezing them when Oliver-him takes off his belt, my heart racing as fast as it had been when we filmed. I don't think about the pressure against my pants, about the fact that there wasn't anything I could do to stop myself from wanting him when he was next to me and our intimate memories were playing out for everyone to see.

I retract my hand after the camera pans away, running it through my hair and pulling my leg away from him. I need space, air, room to calm my body down and forget the feel of his naked body on mine. God, I was fucked. How many screenings did we have to see together? How many times would we be forced to sit there and not react during that scene? How many more times would we have to see that, and how many of those times would we not be alone, would  _ she _ be there as well? I'd never really understood the appeal of filming a sex tape but dammit I understood now, I understood.

I feel the absence of touch as brutally as Oliver must have when Elio drifted away from him the morning after— I feel sick. I glance over at him and wish I could press my fingers against the part of his neck where the pulse jumped. He catches me looking and stares back, unabashedly. He's freaking out, I can see it in his eyes. He swallows hard and I watch him struggle to take a breath. I reach out slowly, putting my hand on his leg and nodding at him as if to say  _ I know, I'm here, it's okay. _ He was the only person who made me strong. For everyone else, I needed lifting up— but for him, in my lowest moment, I would dig myself deeper just to help him stand.

I don't look away until he does, don't move my hand until he closes his eyes and nods back. Even then, I press our legs back together, realizing that perhaps he had connected us that way in the start because he  _ needed _ the contact, not because he wanted it. We watch the movie, both lost in it and each other. Luca was right, the big screen made this— us— magic somehow.

When it gets to Bergamo, I feel myself getting nauseous. I look at the floor, feeling like I might fall through, my hands gripping my thighs tightly. It's the beginning of the end, both for Elio and Oliver and us. It was the start of the pain, the heartache, the loss. I remember Luca's words and how Elizabeth came to visit for the last few days of filming, how I was denied even the last few nights with him after Luca and I spoke about the scene— was it even in there? I hadn’t missed it, had I?— how I was denied so much, how I would never have, so, much. When his hand reaches out to me, touching my shoulder, snaking over my back to rub circles over my dress shirt, I feel like crying. It was too much. I reach out and place a hand on his knee, trying to steady my breathing. He knew, he for sure knew. How could he not? He had to know I was in love with him, if nothing else, this moment should tell him. If nothing else, watching us laugh in the balcony door frame of the hotel and seeing the tears fall down my cheeks should tell him. I pull my hand back and wipe tears away, shrugging his hand off my body. It would only hurt more, the comforting touch meaning something different to me than it did to him, I was sure. He turns towards me and presses our legs tighter together. I can't look at him for the rest of the movie, the feelings too real and raw for me to handle. I know that if I were to look at him, I would start crying and wouldn't stop. So I stare straight ahead and enjoy the moments Luca was convinced would win me awards, an Oscar nom even, he said. I try to remember how incredible it felt to nail those scenes instead of the inspiration I'd used to film them. I try to remember how proud I was instead of how heartbroken.

When it's all over, I peel my leg away from his and inhale, letting the air fill my lungs and calm my nerves. We sit in silence. The audience is as quiet, stunned hopefully, but I don't have time to think. Someone was there, someone's hands, Luca telling me to stand. I couldn't breathe. Someone touches my shoulder to get me to walk and I do as I'm told. I can't tell if they're clapping, I can't hear anything except the blood rushing through my ears as we leave the theater and go down a hall. I see Armie stop but can't look at him. I pass without a word, terrified to let my voice betray how emotional I still felt. They take us to a room for pictures and we stand in silence. Everyone sets up what they need to set up and Luca leans over, telling me to breathe and smile. I try, nodding at him as he places a hand on my arm. "I'm so proud," he says, and I try not to cry, still nodding as if I could shake the emotion away. He steps away to talk to Armie and I sit for a moment until he wanders, finally allowing myself to look at Armie for the first time since it’s ended. He nods slowly, his eyes indecipherable, his lips twitching.

I’d been warned about this, about watching the intimacy, how it might return after seeing it. I’d been warned, but I hadn’t been prepared for it. I feel the tension between us like water on a livewire, wondering if he can feel it, too. My eyes slip shut as the doors in the room do the same, and when my body betrays me and turns towards his, rolling into him until my forehead is pressed against his chest, I am relieved that his arm wraps around me with a sigh. For awhile, we just stay like that, pressed against each other, my hands weary of his slinged arm, cautious of his injury. He holds me closer and sighs again, my fingers digging into his sides. When I fear we’ve embarrassed ourselves for this display, I press my hands against his abdomen and let a shaky breath escape while I pull back. I know as I look up at him that I can’t do this again without telling him something, can’t possibly withstand another showing with him by my side if it was going to be like that in the theater, all emotion and pressed thighs and fingertips. 

The spell is broken only when we are called for pictures, the tension and emotion from the entire cast still palpable in the room, and as they tell us to stand closer, his fingers against my spine and then shoulder, I can’t help but wonder if they’ll see the way he touches me, if they’ll see how I respond, if they know how I love him, how I fear the movie exposes me. 


	2. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with Luca, a flashback, and a painful realization. Armie POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for the support this has already gotten!!! I am so happy yall are enjoying it. As mentioned before, this fic swaps POV's so this one is Armie's.   
> This is actually the first chapter I wrote for this fic seven months ago almost to the date. This idea is what started it all, folks. I'm glad I'm finally sharing it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! I love love lovveeeee it when yall reach out and comment-- I promise to be better this time and more prompt in responding

"Luca, why didn't you put that scene in?" He's still looking down, flipping through the pages someone has given him hours ago. I have no idea what they are, he's flipping too quickly. The premiere had ended quite a while ago, and despite the exhaust I felt deep in my bones, the prospect of being alone right now felt impossibly devastating. Luca seemed to know and invited me to his room for a drink to “catch up,” but we both knew the only topic would be Ford and the film. We covered the baby basics rather quickly, the silence dragging on with my racing heart as I played the movie over again in my mind, the question of this scene spilling out and breaking his revere.  

"Which scene?” he mumbles. 

“Luca,” I say, and he turns to look at me, his shoulders sinking. “You know which scene.” We’d talked about it after it was filmed— he said it captured the fleeting sense of urgency of their love better than any of the other scenes had up to that point. I was certain it would make the cut. 

“I felt it was too much," he says simply.

"It was a good scene," I tell him. He smiles.

"Yes, a very good scene."

"Then why didn't it make the cut?" I'm genuinely curious, though there is a part of me that isn't quite sure I  _ wanted _ the world to see it. He was right— it captured the love between Oliver and Elio… but it was intimate in a way none of the others were, an improv scene born out of an idea Luca had after a late dinner in Crema when Timmy and I stayed at his place until 2am. He had said he got inspiration from watching us with each other— I was about as prepared to deal with that comment now as I had been then. When he gave us updated notes, Timmy and I had taken one look at them before feeling the pressure to deliver something incredible. But when it came time to film, it didn't work, it just didn't work, we never got the shot right the way he wrote it. Hence, the improvisation. 

"It was too much," he says again before looking down. I sigh exasperatedly and roll my eyes.

"What does that  _ mean _ ?"

"You were too vulnerable," he says, putting the papers down and looking up at me with folded arms. "It was too much."

"I thought you wanted that," I offer, my own arms moving to mirror his stance. Too vulnerable? The entire fucking film was too vulnerable. How could that  _ one _ scene be singled out? "It is because we were basically naked? Because we actually were naked in other scenes—" He reveals a sly smile and shakes his head  _ no. _ I drop my arms, looking around as if there was a Luca thought bubble somewhere for me to read.

"It was not acting," he offers softly, tilting his head, testing me. My eyes dart to his in the span of time it takes for my stomach to drop through the floor.

"What do you mean?" I remember the scene well. It was one of my favorites we had done, actually. It was probably the one time I felt completely free; Luca had pushed me so hard that day to get the shot right and I had broken down after it failed so many times. Timmy came over and told me it was going to be okay, that we were in it together. When we walked back, Luca said we were going to try something different to get out of our heads and back into the characters. Some improv, he said. Use what you know about these characters, he said.  _ So we did. _ We used  _ everything _ we knew about them and when Timmy and I ended up naked in that bed together, nothing had felt more natural, nothing felt more like we were exploring these characters and their stories. It was an honest scene, and I had never felt so connected to Oliver.  _ Of course it was acting _ , I went so far into Oliver's head that I  _ was _ him.

"I mean it wasn't acting, it wasn't Oliver and Elio. The two of you were perfect and we debated leaving it in but ultimately if I were to show the scene, it would cross a line," he says. I stare at him and process his words. There were barely any lines in Crema, I wasn't sure how this scene managed to cross one that didn't ever seen to exist. Maybe it was the way Timmy had touched me, maybe it was too revealing. Maybe what we said wasn't right. I couldn't figure it out— what had I done wrong, and why hadn't he told me sooner? "You were wonderful, Armie. I could have put it in the film, but what would that do? Every other scene would pale. I had to take it out for the sake of the story, as well as for you." 

I feel dizzy instantaneously. I’m not sure how long we sit in silence before I stand and leave, not sure if he says something, if he says goodbye. I don’t even really realize the way my body turns the wrong way down the hall of our hotel until I’m halfway to his room and it dawns on me where my feet are taking me. I sink to the ground outside his door and stare at the wall across from me and wonder if Luca could be right. I’d always had a haunch that Timmy might have developed a crush, the way he reacted tonight during the premiere only reinforcing the notion that perhaps his feelings linger— but I couldn’t think about that. Thinking about Timmy wanting me and staying silent felt dangerous. Maybe Luca had known though and meant how Timmy kissed me, maybe it was just him getting carried away, maybe it was the way he toyed with my shirt that had been caught by Luca’s eyes. Maybe, maybe, maybe— 

He was talking about me, though. But it wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be. Elizabeth had been there that day, granted not on set but she’d been there. We were celebrating that weekend, surely I was more in love with her than ever… Luca had to be wrong. I remember the weight of his hand on my leg earlier and resist the urge to replay the scenes omitted from the film in my mind.

The door opens suddenly and it startles me, a too-loud  _ fuck _ escaping before I can stop it, Timmy jumping back and hitting his elbow on the doorframe. “What the hell! What are you doing?!” he whisper-shouts at me, his eyes wide as he rubs his arm. I stare at him while I think of an excuse that isn’t pathetic, but I can tell by the way he looks at me that we’re far beyond the time for being embarrassed for wanting to be near one another. “Well come in at least. What’s going on?” he asks, shuffling back a bit to motion for me to move into his darkened hotel room. 

I stand slowly and groan when my joints ache— I really needed to sleep more instead of waiting for nothing in hotel halls. “Come on old man,” he teases, slapping my ass when I pass him. It’s harmless, just like it was that summer, like it was when he stayed with us. It’s harmless. But I remember him crying during the movie and suddenly it feels fake, this playful bravado.

I sit on his bed as he flips on a light and walks over, his hand resting gently on my injured arm as if to check that it’s still attached. “Does it hurt?” he asks quietly. I shrug. “Okay, you gotta talk, man. You don’t want me to carry the conversation on this little sleep,” he chuckles, sitting next to me. 

“Where were you going?” I ask, turning to look at him in time to see him scratch the back of his neck. 

“Ah, I was going to talk to Luca but it’s not a big deal. I’ll catch him at breakfast. What’s up?” I watch him carefully and count the reasons I shouldn’t tell him what Luca said, realizing ultimately that it was useless, that he’d get it out of me eventually. He always did. And if he was going to speak with Luca, well he’d know regardless of whether or not I wanted him to know.

“I just left his room,” I offer, easing into it, still unsure if I want to open this can of worms.

“Yeah, I figured. I knew you went with him so…” Timmy shrugs. I take a deep breath. 

“Do you remember that scene we did the day it started pouring in the middle of filming? The improv one?"

"Yeah, of course. Kind of surprised it wasn't in the movie, actually, I thought I missed it at first and then realized he just… didn’t include it," he says, glancing down at his hands. "Did you ask him about it?" I nod slowly. 

"He said it wasn't acting," I tell him boldly, getting it over with. It was bullshit, anyway. Even if it did make me nauseous. "That's crazy, right?" I'm not sure what I expect him to say, what I even  _ want _ him to say. He looks back at me slowly.

"What does that mean? It wasn't  _ acting _ ?" He looks at me how I must have looked at Luca— terrified.

"He said it wasn't Elio and Oliver." His eyes drop to the ground in an instant. He swallows and scratches his arm, his brows knitting together. When his eyes meet mine again there is something in them that sends me reeling, something I can’t quite identify, but it reminds me of how he looked at me in the theater tonight. My heart races. 

"So he thinks…"

"Yeah." I don't let him finish, I don't want to hear it. He nods back at me and shifts his weight.

"Did he ever say that to you? When we filmed, did he ever insinuate—"

"Of course he didn't." If he had said something, it could have changed the dynamic, it could have altered how we played our characters. If he thought it was real all along, then acknowledging that would inevitably affect our acting. Of course he didn't say anything. How could he and still ensure a masterpiece?

“Armie... “ He’s still staring at our feet and I’m taken back to a different bed in different circumstances when he scooted closer. “He said something to me,” he whispers. 

“What?” He nods. “Timmy—  _ what?  _ Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Why didn’t I tell you he thought we were— “ he stops himself, his eyes meeting mine. “God he really told you he thought it wasn’t acting?” 

“Yes,” I mutter, exasperated. I’m not sure how to handle him like this— he’s never hidden from me before and that’s what this feels like— deflection, hiding. 

“I mean— it’s bullshit… right? It was definitely acting.” I nod at his words and he looks away. “We were just in character, it wasn’t any different from the other stuff we did like that.” I don’t believe him for a second, the memory of his leg pressed against mine still fresh. But he’s trying, and I take the hint. 

“Yeah, exactly. I don’t know why he’s singling that one out,” I say.

“We should probably be flattered,” he laughs, but it’s awkward and clumsy and when he meets my eyes, we look at each other a little longer than we should. I see a light pink blush creep up his neck and realize he's lost in thought, remembering the scene. I fight the memory but his eyes flicker to my lips and I’m not sure I can.

“Armie—” 

“It was acting,” I tell him. “ _ I  _ was acting,” I say, thinking perhaps that might help. He nods slowly, but it’s too late. I can feel him all around me and the bed we’re on is suddenly too warm, too inviting, his body too close. 

“Who are you trying to convince?” he whispers, his hands twisting together half hidden under his too long sleeves. “I know— I know I started it, but you didn’t hesitate to take the scene there. You took your shirt off—” 

“Oh so this is all my fault because I took my shirt off?”

“Wait, I don’t want to do this blaming bullshit. Can we just talk about what this is really about?” he asks, his voice rising. I can see his lip tremble when I glance at him, my heart racing at the sight.  

“ _ You _ were the one who said Elio,” I mutter. “I was following  _ your  _ lead.” He stares back at me in strict defiance, though his nervous hands give him away. I resist the urge to hold his to stop the shaking. 

“Armie,” he whispers, shaking his head. I watch the emotion fill his eyes and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel it, too; the memory is too much to deny and trying to makes my stomach ache. I walk away, rest against the wall, the proximity to him too much as I remember it all. 

_ "Cut! Alright, take a break, get some water or something," Luca calls. I stumble away from Timmy in a haze, hands shaking, relieved that Elizabeth decided not to come to set today. I could feel it coming on— the anxiety attack I'd been pushing off for a few takes now. Hell, the anxiety attack I'd been pushing off since she got to town a few days ago. I wasn't sure what it was about  _ this _ scene— we'd filmed intimate scenes, hell nothing would beat the first one when we laid tangled up in bed together. But this was different. Luca had wanted some sort of scene to capture the moments in Bergamo at night that wouldn't feel too forced. He settled on a loosely scripted love scene that expanded the original screen play's "Boxer" scene, 129. He felt it was incomplete, that there could be something else instead. So he rewrote it a few nights ago while Timmy and I drank and talked about Film Noir's relevance in the modern world, Elizabeth long gone to put Harper to bed. He had been quiet that night, jotting notes down in his pages from the get go. He said the final scenes were troubling him a little now that we were actually starting them, though he said he was sure they would all come together— he trusted the chemistry and the story. He did that on occasion, sat in contemplation, sketching things out on paper while we all talked. It worried me the first couple of times, but Luca was insistent that it didn't reflect on me at all—  _ if anything, Armie, it's a good thing. It means I see what you can do and want more. Don’t fear it. _ It was probably the first real substantial Luca Lesson I'd gotten in fear, learning how to handle him taking notes and changing subtle things in scenes. I stopped being self-conscious a long time ago with that process of his. It was normal now. _

_ This wasn't, though. He added the entire scene and then kept changing things on the fly— it was stressing me out. I could make out with Timmy, but I could only make it so authentic when I knew he had this image in his head that he couldn't verbally express. He kept trying to explain the emotion behind it and the feeling, but I was lost and usually when either Timmy or I were lost, the other wasn't so we could fall back on that…but  _ Timmy _ didn't even know what to do. After a few takes, my hands felt awkward when I framed his face and his lips were too eager, or maybe they were too nervous, I wasn't sure. It wasn't right, it didn't work at all and we all knew it. Luca said  _ more feeling _ so many times that I thought I was going to lose my mind. I couldn't put more feeling in, I didn't have any more to give. _

_ The truth was, for the past couple of days, Luca has started to check out and it pissed me off. He was off his game, I was sure of it. I saw the Suspiria script in his apartment— I knew he was probably thinking about it already. It made sense, filming ended soon, of course he'd move on. It hurt though, God, it hurt. I needed him still, and this movie needed him, and this scene was evidence enough that something was wrong. It couldn't just be Timmy and I— we rarely screwed up the emotion behind scenes involving kissing. Luca wasn't conveying his vision, and I couldn't stop thinking that Suspiria was why. I tried pushing the creeping fear out of my head, but every passing take seemed to reinforce the idea that he didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't care. It was killing me, and it was getting harder to silence that fear. So when he called cut, I left, gladly. I needed air, space, anything to stop the anxiety from taking over. Logically, I knew he loved Call My By Your Name more than anyone outside of this project would ever comprehend. Logically, I knew this was a communication error, not a passion error. Logically, I knew Suspiria wasn't what he was thinking about right now. But I was tired and frustrated and it was the only thing I could hold onto. _

_ "Armie," I hear Timmy call out. I don't look, I keep walking until I pass the threshold of set. I lean against the hallway and close my eyes, head tilting in the direction Timmy is coming from. I take a few deep breaths, trying to force the blood through my veins by sheer will power. I slow my mind, though it races so fast, shouting over and over again that it's hard to do anything but simply exist. I feel my chest tightening and the air struggle to escape my lungs, panic setting in when I realize I can't breathe properly. I screw my eyes shut, my hands going to fists at my sides as if that would stop the breakdown from happening, when warm hands connect with my arms and slide up the skin until they're wrapped around my neck, his body pressing against mine. I let out a shaky breath and force my arms to loop around his body, my forehead pressing into his shoulder. "You're okay, deep breaths, I got you," he says, shifting us so he can rub soothing circles on my back to ground me. I focus on his heart beating against me, trying to stabilize my breathing to the feeling of his own, letting the steady rhythm of his body calm mine into a state of normalcy. "That's better. You're fine, Armie. It's going to be okay," he says, running a hand through my hair. The first time this happened, he'd been far less efficient at calming me down. He'd mostly just stared blankly and asked what to do. He would never know how much it meant that he'd learned exactly what worked to stop the attacks, that he knew what the warning signs were and always followed when I freaked out. _

_ I loosen my fists and feel drained, hands falling limp as I let out a sigh. "Thanks," I mumble, my face still pressed into the crook of his neck. He moves his hands to my shoulders and presses his lips to my forehead, letting the moment linger before dropping his hands and leaning back, though his right hand tugs my left one to twist our fingers together. I watch, seeing the way we're connected and wondering why the scene was so difficult when this was so easy. "I don't know what he wants," I confess. He swipes his thumb over mine a few times before speaking, pulling my focus to his face, to his eyes and his lips. _

_ "I don't either. It's not your fault though, I don't think it's anyone's fault." _

_ "But  _ why _ — it should work. All we do is move from the window to the bed, and we kiss and say a few lines. It should work. It's easy," I say, shaking my head and stuffing the anxiety down when it threatens to rise up. I look towards the ceiling and Timmy reaches out to gently run over my hair with his free hand. I close my eyes and squeeze his hand, craving the connection to keep me sane. _

_ "Just think about Oliver, how he would feel. It's their last days, but it's also their  _ first _ days, of freedom and exploration without Elio's family around." I look at him and he smiles, lifting our hands to his lips briefly. "We got this." I nod and try not to worry as he leads me back to set, dropping my hand only when we enter Luca's line of sight. We had no secrets from him, no one on set did— but sometimes we lived and died by the touches he wasn't privy to, those fleeting moments that were just ours and no one else's, the seconds we stole without guilt and opted never to speak of. It made our acting better, I'd said once. Sneaking like they would have. _

_ "We're going to try something new. I don't want you to think about the script— throw it out. We're going to let your bodies and hearts carry the scene. You know your characters, let them guide you," Luca says. I glance at Timmy and he gives me an encouraging smile before asking Luca if he means we're supposed to improvise now. When Luca nods, I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. He explains the vision and how he wants us to be free and feel the moment and love however we think our characters would. I let myself slip back into filming mode, trying to channel Oliver's heart. We get set and I watch as Timmy shakes his hands at his side, getting rid of nerves. He looks up and smiles fondly, winking. I feel my heart swell and focus in on the Elio qualities he's already exhibiting, letting myself see him for all he is and ever will be. When Luca calls action, it's not difficult to follow his lead as he touches the skin on my chest exposed by buttons, his laughter filling the air when my hand lifts to cover his, pulling him towards me quickly. I smile down at him there's a moment where I swear his eyes are liquid gold, though I know they're more emerald than anything. For a brief moment, they're sunshine. _

_ I don't know what Luca wants, what he even really cares about capturing, so I let go of it. Timmy was right— it would be okay, Luca would get his shot and this was probably just an exercise to get us to stop screwing up the chemistry. Which, to be honest, probably meant chemistry was what he really wanted from us with this improv. As I run my fingers through Timmy's hair, his eyes slipping shut briefly as he breaks out a brilliant smile for me, I think chemistry is the easiest part of our job. We could deliver that, if only that. I let go of all my fears, every anxiety at not capturing the scene, and lean down to press my lips against his jaw. He sighs against me and loops his arms around my waist not unlike I had done with him moments ago in the hall. He rests his forehead against my chest, his fingers lifting momentarily to undo a button so he can connect his lips with skin. I'm instantly warm, his hands returning to my back as he breathes against my skin. I frame his face in my hands and twist his hair between my fingers, loving the way his curls fit the spaces there. He smiles against me, his hands slipping to rest at my hips as he makes a coy move to nip at my chest. I jump back, slightly, laughing as his bright smile meets mine. I grab his shirt and pull him back to me, connecting our lips as his arms wrap around my neck like a promise. It's light and I try not to count the kisses we have left before Luca will wrap the film. There was still time, I didn't need to think about that yet. Instead, I focus on his fingers sneaking under the neck of my shirt, the way he bumps his nose against mine playfully, how I could feel him going up on his tiptoes. _

_ I don't know what overcame me, but something about his youthful approach to this kiss makes me press my lips to the tip of his nose, my hands intertwining with his and bringing them to our sides before dropping one hand to spin him around in a circle like a dancer. He laughs, the sound crystal clear and euphoric, his eyes alive in a way I haven't felt in days as he looks at me in awe, a look I'd grown accustomed to from him though I still felt as though it was entirely undeserved. He follows the twirl with another, then lifts up on his tip toes and moves his arm to prompt me to spin as well. Laughing, I do so, shaking my head. God, Oliver would love this—  _ I  _ loved this. It was so innocent and his absolute joy at the action was enough to save lives. I spin right into him, my free hand rising to his cheek, reveling in the moment. We stare at each other for a moment and I understand how Oliver must have felt when he visited Bergamo, or Rome, with his Elio. How it must have felt to be in a new place with someone who saw everything there was to see about you and instead of running, stayed and laughed and twirled and loved. How beautiful it was to be loved by someone who cared so little about who else would see. _

_ It's him who leans in, who allows our lips to meet, who steals my breath. It's slow and I feel my shoulders lowering, his thumb swiping over my fingers still enclosed in his hand. When he releases me in favor of grabbing my hair, I sigh into him and deepen the kiss, a tingling sensation starting at the back of my ears and creeping down to my ankles as slowly as his tongue skating across mine. I feel his breath catch and allow my arms to wrap around him, holding him steady.  _ I got you _ , I want to whisper, just like he did earlier.  _ I got you, and it's going to be fine. _ I can't help the sound that escapes when  his fingers scrape a line down my body, starting at the nape of my neck and following down my chest, stopping only when he reaches my waist and can slip his eager fingers under the fabric. I'm suddenly desperate for the layer to be discarded and part from his lips, sucking in a deep breath and when he looks at me. His eyes are open and understanding, his lower lip trembling slightly though a smile was ghosting his beautiful face as his fingers traced circles on my waist. I try not to think about the fact that with my shirt still on, the cameras wouldn't see this movement, that it wasn't for cameras, that it was for me and him and no one else. It almost makes me want to leave the clothes on, but then he leans forward and bumps our noses and I can't stop smiling, pulling my shirt off slowly and letting it fall. His eyes don’t leave mine as his hands go to his own shirt, his gaze warm and inviting. I help him out of it, both of us laughing when it gets tangled up. When he's free, I lean in and kiss him. I'm not surprised when his hands go to my belt, nor am I surprised when our hearts start racing and his pulse jumps as I press fingers against the spot on his neck where I can feel the blood pumping. Our playful touches turn intentional and soon I can't remember why I'm  _ not _ supposed to take the remaining clothes off. I lead him to the bed, sitting down and allowing him to straddle me. It reminds me of the midnight scene, the first time we did this for cameras, the day when everything became real and we had to talk about how the lines were being blurred. It was the first time I'd let him touch me however he wanted and trusted that it would be okay. It was the first time I'd ever gotten naked with another man. _

_ He hums against my lips and leans against me before rocking back and slipping off my body. I glance at him in confusion before realizing what he's doing. I bite my lip, hands resting on my knees as he slips his shorts off. He's still wearing boxers, and I wonder which angle the camera is catching, if it sees what I see, how he's affected and half hard. I don't have to look down to know that I'm in the same position. The time for getting embarrassed over it was weeks ago, it happened so often no one batted an eye anymore. I let him pull me back up, his hands going to my own shorts. I watch him with a small smile, letting him undress me, knowing there were very few people I'd ever trusted enough to remove my clothes for me. He pushes me down when he's done, making me laugh slightly in disbelief at his blatant albeit hesitant dominance. He straddles me and smirks just slightly when our hips come in contact, the feeling something I wasn't sure I'd ever get used to. He leans down and lets his fingertips ghost over my skin, whispering,  _ "Elio."  _ It shakes me to my core, reminding me where we are and just how incredible of an actor he is. I push off onto my elbows, eyes glued to his lips as his tongue darts over them. _

_ "Oliver," I say back, lifting a hand to crash our lips together. He moans against me as he closes the distance, his hands in my hair then at my shoulders, my ribs, everywhere. We kiss for a few minutes, long enough for the thin material of our boxers to be just enough fabric to make me insane, long enough for me to want more, for me to wish we were alone, for me to realize how incredibly wrong it was that the name I wanted to moan wasn't Elio's, or even Oliver's, but his. How guilty I felt for even having the thought. _

 

“Please, just be honest with me,” he mutters, pulling me from my thoughts. “Was it acting?” His voice is barely audible and I almost wish I could pretend I hadn’t heard. 

“I don’t know,” I mumble, afraid to look at him. I couldn't remember if that scene had been acting at all, if maybe we were just being ourselves and someone had let us do whatever we wanted without any sort of consequence. It was the one chance we got to do whatever we felt like and have no guilt. Maybe it wasn't acting, maybe it had been us all along. Maybe Luca was right, and it would have crossed a line to include it.

"You're married, so…" I nod and look back at him, trying to keep my facade in place. "If it was real then…" He looks down, shrugging awkwardly.

"Timmy— " He looks back quickly, his eyes a little too wide for normality. The shift in his gaze, the way he was pulling at his sleeves— I understand immediately that he’s looking for flat out denial or a statement of promise, neither of which I’m certain I can offer honestly. "It was acting." I hate that I don't even believe the words when I hear them in my own two ears, but it’s better than false hope, than the truth risking us both hurting in the end. It’s better than encouraging him and risking him saying what I’m not sure I’ll recover from hearing.

"But you kissed me after he said cut. I remember— you kissed me, your hand— "

"Timmy," I warn, my own resolve threatening to crumble. I have to be strong so he doesn’t have to be. I’m older, it makes sense for me to take the emotional brunt of this fall and hide it for us with careful words and constructed phrases. "It was acting," I say again. But God, I had forgotten how it ended. Luca calling cut, my hand pressing hard against his hip, my mouth still covering his and swallowing a moan. God, I forgot. I'd been so lost, I forgot. He's quiet for a minute as the memory washes over me, my fingers twitching, remembering the feel of his skin. 

"Wait— is that why he cut that other scene? The extra midnight one? Because he thought— "

"Probably, yeah. I can't exactly blame him for that, though. It was a lot," I say, trying not to turn red. Sure, we'd been affected by the improv scene— but the midnight scene was another thing entirely. That was different, his body face down on the mattress, my hand on the small of his back. I don't know how we even got through that scene. 

"Right," he says, though it's distant, as if a memory. I steal a glance at him and see his chest rising and falling quickly. He's remembering. "We fucked up, didn't we?" The imprint of his hand had stayed on my thigh for two days after one scene that was omitted. Yes, I think.  _ We definitely fucked up. _ I nod back at him, swallowing hard. "I didn't mean to…you know, I didn't mean--"

"Me either," I say. It's easier if we don't actually say the words. Saying them makes it real, makes the memories come alive. They're better trapped in our minds where they can't hurt anyone but ourselves.

"Armie, he cut  _ a lot  _ of scenes," Timmy says, his voice shaking.

"I know," I say back. I've been trying not to think about everything he cut, what his reasons might have been. What they might have revealed, which lines they crossed. Whether or not my wife would be able to watch them without us having a serious talk afterwards. With the way he’s looking at me now, with how difficult it was to breathe while watching the movie next to him, well I’m not sure a single scene we filmed that made it wouldn’t set her off.

"He cut  _ important  _ scenes, Armie."

" _ I know _ ," I say again. I can't do this, we can't talk about this. Talking makes it real and when it's real I won't be able to hide from it anymore. And we still had festivals and events and photoshoots and interviews and I can’t do this if he’s going to make me face this for what it is. We need cover, we need the denial and the mask of filming, not this, this  _ openness. _

"If he thought— "

" _ Timmy,  _ please. I know. Go bring it up with him,  _ please _ ." I look away, fearing my ability to deny this if he’s going to continue talking about it so blatantly.

"Fine," he says. “Then I think you should go,” he says quietly.

  
  
  
  



	3. Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We don't, we don't need to talk about this now" - Kodaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timmy's POV

We didn't talk about it.

I watched him walk out the door of my hotel room and vowed to tell him in the morning that I was in love, that it wasn't acting for me… but then the sun rose and he was laughing with Luca at breakfast over something the bellhop had said in the elevator on the way down and I couldn't bring myself to do anything but sit and watch. Elizabeth was texting him; apparently Ford didn't want to let her sleep normal hours. He seemed okay.

I didn't want to make him not okay.

I decided to ask Luca about it instead, ask if he had any advice, if he really did cut all those scenes because he knew they crossed lines. But even with him, I worried he'd tell me exactly what I knew to be true— that of course they did, of course it would hurt to watch, of course it wouldn't result in anything but a lot of confused hearts. He knew that I knew Armie spoke with him, though. I could see it in his eyes when he greeted me at breakfast that he understood I didn't sleep last night, that I was caught up in swimming thoughts. He took pity, kept conversation light. Suggested we hang out today, the three of us, in whatever free time we were allowed that didn't run into other obligations and projects and panels. 

It was surprisingly easy to remain professional around Armie, the months of practice coming in handy. I still stole looks and knew he did the same, but it felt safe as long as we didn't outrightly talk about the reason it felt like I was being burned alive every time we were asked to sit near each other, our bodies gravitating naturally to one another as if nature was trying to push the final nail in my coffin slowly. I'd been burning since the day I met him, though; it shouldn't come as a surprise anymore.

Before leaving the festival, we went to dinner with the cast and crew who were present and it was just like old times. No one but us, a closed dinner Luca said. We stayed at the restaurant until it closed, like we might have if we were still in Italy, and the memory of the movie was enough to make it feel like maybe no time had passed at all, maybe I'd wake up tomorrow and put on swim trunks and an old t-shirt and get to spend the day with Armie. There was something in the air that I'd missed for months now, a sort of electricity and sense of possibility. Armie had sat next to me because he wanted to and I felt the space between us like I did back then, allowed my hand to touch his shoulder or leg like I did then, knowing the conversation hung over us heavily but no longer feeling strong enough to resist. His arm fell around my chair casually when Michael cracked a joke and when Luca made a pointed comment about our other projects not being families like this one, there were smiles on all our faces because we knew it was true. Still, the weight was there through the night. It was there in the way Armie pulled back after we made eye contact, as if remembering himself. It was as if time had stopped and everything was happening all at once, that summer, the months between where we'd visited one another, this moment right now. It was an odd, almost heady feeling, living and breathing the air there.

When we returned to the hotel, it felt empty and cold. I watched as Armie opened his door and disappeared, the hall too similar to the one he disappeared from in Italy our last night.

I couldn't exactly tell him Luca was wrong, I had even _ had _ the conversation with Luca about it not being acting. I mean if he's going to single  _ any _ scene out as being real it would absolutely be that one. I had wanted it in the movie, though, and was a little sad when it didn't make it. I wanted to see him laughing, the way he'd twirled under my arm just to please me. I wanted it so badly my bones ached, and knowing Luca had locked it away for the very reasons I wanted to watch it hurt. Asking him about the scene and why he cut it would only make him give me that look, the one that said  _ we already talked about this _ . His words still haunted me, even now, even sitting in this dim hotel room with Armie a few doors down.

_ "I think you should be careful, Timmy," Luca says, folding a shirt and handing it to me. He was helping me go through some things I'd accumulated during filming. Packing sucked, but it was a little better having someone there with me, as if it wasn't over for real, not yet. "I know you've grown attached, but it's time to be careful with your heart." _

_ "What do you mean?" I ask, accepting the clothing and putting it in a suitcase. I lean against my bed and look at him. _

_ "It's going to be very different from now on. You won't have all of us here at your convenience. You can call me but you will be working on another project and be quite busy. Have you ever had your heart broken, Timmy?" _

_ I was confused, I wasn't sure where he was going with any of this. His too casual tone and flippant mention of heartache catches me off guard. I mean, I could guess why he was bringing it up, about the heart thing, but the rest I didn't understand at all. "I have, yeah," I tell him. "A bit." _

_ "That's good. That will help you. It will get better with time and—" _

_ "Wait, Luca— what are you talking about?" I fold my arms over my chest and watch as he processes the question, curious to see if he’ll really say it. _

_ "You and…Oh," he says. "Oh, you don't—  _ Timmy _ ," he moves to come sit next to me and I shift to give him space. "I just assumed that you felt something for him." _

_ "For Armie?" I ask, looking at him cautiously. I could feel my heart race and knew this was it, the moment when I'd finally have to admit it. I'd been so good at pushing the thoughts aside, of telling myself there was time to figure it out, time to dissect the feelings, time to make it out alive before it all came crashing down and I would be forced to accept that this wasn't just acting. _

_ "Yes," he says, stroking my hair gently with a small smile. "It's alright if you don't want to talk about it, I understand. But you will have to understand soon that it is something your heart will need time to deal with." _

_ I look away from him and feel my shoulders sagging, my hands falling to my lap and twisting together as I stare at the window. I take a few breaths and know that Luca is the best person to talk to about this, he was the only one who saw everything and wouldn't judge. "I know," I whisper, the small statement the first time I've admitted my heart is too invested for its own good. "I know," I repeat, a little louder. _

_ "It is alright to hurt, Timothée," he tells me, resting his hand on my shoulder. "It is a natural thing to hurt for love." I nod slowly, knowing this is his way of telling me he understands what I'm about to go through. I can't even think about it, we still had three days, I couldn't even think about it. I can’t think about hearing Michael deliver a speech too similar to whatever this is now and feeling every word too much. "You won't be alone, either. You can rely on him." _

_ "What makes you think that?" I ask, eyes still glued to the window. _

_ "It is not just you, Timmy. He is hurting, too." I look at him and feel my entire body go live, as if stepping out into the snow in shorts and feeling the immediacy of cold everywhere at once. _

_ "He is?" I don't recognize my voice. _

_ "Of course, Timmy. It is a big deal, what you two have done here. It was special." I see in his eyes that he's not telling me something and I wish desperately he'd just spill. "That scene we did today was very good," he says. "But it was not just your characters, I fear." I swallow hard and look down at my feet. He isn't wrong. "You have become your characters and they have become you. Walking away will hurt you, and I want you to be prepared for that hurt," he says. _

_ "How can I be? Prepared, I mean?" I ask quietly. I feel small, I feel every year of my age and every year I haven't yet lived. I feel like Elio. He was right, we had become one another in a way that not even Elio and Oliver could imagine two beings becoming one and the same. He was a part of me now, and even now with Luca, I felt the heart of Elio as he spoke with his father become  _ my _ heart. _

_ "You don't hide from the pain. You let yourself heal and don't hide from it. Hiding will hurt more." _

_ "Not hiding isn't an option, Luca," I say, feeling emotion creep up from the pit of my stomach until my eyes water. _

_ "Why?" he asks. I look at him and see that he's actually asking, this isn't rhetorical. _

_ "Because— because it just isn't," I say, shrugging and looking away. "It's just not an option." _

_ "Of course it is an option. I do not think you know what is coming, Timmy. I do not think you are prepared, and hiding your pain from people who can help will make it hurt more." _

_ "What does that even mean, that I don't know what's coming?" I'm afraid of his answer, but I know all the same that I'll regret it if I don't ask. _

_ "You will be parting from yourself." I let out an exasperated sigh and look to the ceiling before meeting his gaze and lifting my eyebrows. I still don't have a clue what he means and he knows it. "I do not think you are prepared to go back to a place like New York after this, alone. It is going to be difficult, and adding the pain of not seeing him will make it worse. You will need people, Timothée," he says, rubbing circles on my back. I think about his words, about going home and leaving this place. I think about today, and how Armie laughed like crazy into my neck when I tickled him after he let me pin him to the bed. I think about how it felt to lay next to him and reach out with my legs to tangle in his, how he looked at me, how he'd kissed my knuckles and talked about the café he wanted to visit after filming if I was up for it. How all of that was gone in a few days. _

_ Maybe Luca was right. _

_ "What do I do?" I ask, suddenly terrified. I could feel the absence, the loss, I could feel it settling in my bones and it scared me. He was right— it was all going away, I was walking away and I wasn't going to come back, this wasn't somewhere I could just return to and I knew it. He wraps his arms around me and I let him hold me. I let the fear take over for a few seconds, letting it destroy me until the count of five. Then I recover, take a deep breath, and pull back. _

_ He touches my cheek fondly and says, "It will be okay. You just need to have people. Do not shut us out, you can call me anytime. Find joys in your life and let your heart heal as it wants. Don’t let it kill you," he says. I know he probably means an emotional death but I can't help but feel something deeper, something darker and anxious and terrified that tells me he might not be speaking metaphorically. I push the thought away. "Love is never something to be ashamed of. But sometimes it is something you cannot do for long, and it must fade." I nod and take a shaky breath. He's right, it has to fade. It would be fine, it would just fade and I'd be okay. "I will never forget the love my movie helped make though," he says. "It is beautiful." _

_ "I didn't want this," I tell him. "I never wanted to fall in love." I feel the moment my voice breaks, tears threatening to spill over, but it’s all ending and he’ll go back to his life with her where I don’t belong and I can’t even be mad about it because it’s right, their relationship is by all standards  _ right _ and whatever is between us doesn’t seem to be. Not with so many roadblocks. Not when he doesn’t reciprocate.  _

_ "I know, it’s alright, we can't help our hearts." He pulls me back into a hug and I let myself cry, knowing I might not have another chance to cry over him with someone who understands. I play the moment I met him in my mind, carrying it forward to the first time I made him laugh, really laugh. I remember the first time we kissed in the backyard with Luca watching, I remember the first time he touched me, the first time we stayed up all night, the first time he told me he loved me even if only platonically, the first time I said it, the way he looked at me when we got caught in the rain during filming, how we'd sit and laugh after love scenes and tease each other about acting choices. I think about today, and how he looked like he might cry when I kissed his jaw after pushing him on his back, how he held me with more emotion than he ever had before, how he kissed me after Luca called cut and I felt like I might sob. How I was never going to be able to recover from the way he looked at me after taking his shirt off,  _ him _ , not Oliver. _

_ "Why did you make us do that scene?" I ask through tears. It made everything worse, it made me want that life more than any other scene we'd done. If he had just left it out, I'd be okay, I could go on and be alright. But now I knew what it felt like when he let me see him, and I knew what it felt like when he held me like he was afraid to let go, and how it felt to be seen and looked at like everything simultaneously made sense and fell apart, like he might, just might, feel it too.  _

_ "It was a good scene, I thought it would add to the film," he says simply. "I didn't realize it would happen like that." _

_ "You made us  _ improvise!  _ How could you not know?" I ask, pulling back and looking at him in frustration. _

_ "I wasn't sure," he said. _

_ "About what?" I nearly shout. I stand and walk to the window, wiping my eyes. _

_ "About the love. I didn't know you were in love," he says simply. "I wasn't sure, at least." _

_ "So you just, what, toyed with me?" I couldn't look at him. _

_ "Do you really think I would do that, Timmy?" he asks. I can hear the hurt from where I stand, so I turn and look at him. _

_ "No, no I don't really— sorry, I just— I don't know, Luca," I look away, feeling the tears again. My nose was runny and I felt too warm, and I suddenly wished I had tissues or at least was wearing a hoodie or something to wipe my face properly. The first time I wore Billowy he walked right up to me and laughed. The sleeves completely covered my hands and he had to roll them for me because I was in a rush and wardrobe was feeling particularly lax and told me to do it on the run. They never rolled them for me, he always did it with a smile and small talk and his fingers grazing my skin. He always tugged at the ends and sometimes I’d hear this tiny breathless laugh before he started pushing the fabric up my arms. They didn’t let me wear it nearly enough in the film. "I don’t know how to go back," I tell him, tears still falling. It was dark outside and I stared at the clouds covering the moon, wishing I could see the light it would bring. I'd be back in New York in mere days and he'd be gone, this would all be gone, just another memory to haunt me at night. _

My hotel room felt too similar to that night, the dim lighting and dreary feeling too familiar. I get up and strip to take a shower, hoping it will clear my mind. It doesn't help, though. I feel the memories pouring over me with the water, the steam doing nothing but force me to seep in them. I feel his hands ghosting my body as the shampoo travels over skin, his laugh against my ear, and I think that if I weren't so goddamn sad it wasn't real, I might be turned on. It hasn't been this bad in a while; I'd been pretty good at hiding the emotion. I'd even gotten pretty good at convincing myself that I didn't love him or feel anything. I actually believed it most of the time, that I didn't love him. Logically, I thought I probably didn't, that maybe at this point I was just enamored with the  _ idea _ of him. But then I remember his slow smile at dinner when they teased me about my rap videos resurfacing and I think maybe it's not all in my head, maybe the way he looked at me was symptomatic of this being something bigger than friendship.

I don't sleep well, I hardly sleep at all. The memory of that summer is all around me, not specific moments but rather the general feel. I toss and turn, remembering the weight of his body on beds millions of years away, how the mattress dips when he lays down and shakes when he laughs. Mine feels empty.

The plane ride home is a painful reminder that I'm alone and he will not be.

 

 

"Elizabeth says you should visit," he tells me a few days later on the phone, the first conversation we've had since the festival that didn't occur over text. "I think you should, too," he adds. "I want you to meet Ford."

"Okay," I say, because I can't say no to him, because he wants me to meet his son who he says has a beautiful tiny smile and tiny toes and would cling to me and my hair. Because I think maybe he knows I love him and any opportunity to be a part of his little family is an opportunity I can't bring myself to miss.

He books the flight and sends me the information and I try not to read into the way it took less than an hour between him asking and confirming.

I call Luca the night before my flight, hoping he'd have some sort of insight into the trip. I don't even have to ask him for advice; all I say is I'm visiting Armie and he sighs, tells me he's glad we're so close, but I know behind his words is the advice:  _ don't fall harder than you already have.  _ I tell him it's to meet Ford and he says he's jealous. We both know there's more to this story but we remain quiet so I can save face. I appreciate it, to an extent.

When he hugs me, it’s warm, his arm still in a sling but his recklessness is showing as he tries to maneuver it just so in order to hold me closer. It’s been too long, he tells me, I nod though I went longer without seeing my best friends while being in the same city as them. It  _ has _ been too long. 

I don’t know why it surprises me how easily we fall back into step with one another, how the simple banter returns to us without any more tension than was there before, but it does. The way he laughs and nudges me is still the same, the way his kid runs around and wants to dance is the same, the way Nick teases me is the same, it’s all very much the same and I can’t quite understand why everything feels exactly the same and completely different. 

Ford is more than I can take, and for a long time, I just sit with him in my arms. Harper tries to chime in and help but gets bored and plays with Elizabeth after awhile. I keep touching his fingers to watch them expand and curl back in on themselves— his nails are  _ tiny _ . Armie kept some distance at first to “let you two get acquainted,” but wanders over and sits with me, his hand stroking Ford’s head. “He’s so small,” I whisper. 

“Yeah, babies are like that,” he teases me, but he leans closer and I can smell his aftershave and as he taps at Ford’s chin lightly to make him smile, I think I might actually start crying. “He likes you. He cries when Nick holds him.” 

“No he doesn’t, asshole,” Nick chimes in from across the room. Armie smiles and shrugs, his eyes still on Ford. I realize perhaps too late that I’m staring not at his son, but at him  _ watching _ his son, and try to look away. It’s just, I’d never seen him with Harper like this. He was different with her, already protective and playful and bold and bright. With Ford, he is quiet and gentle, nurturing even, reverent. Stunning. 

A little later, he makes us dinner because of course he does. A sort of playfulness seems to linger around the edges of every interaction and he asks for help because of his arm. Nick and I wander in with Harper trailing behind. I realize too quickly that being near him is not a good idea— I thought being near him with his son was enough, but now he needs help stirring, chopping, his good shoulder bumping mine constantly. Nick is cracking jokes and Armie is laughing like he always does and it’s overwhelming to be here again in his world with his family in this post-premiere state we’re in. 

He gets impatient with dinner and takes his sling off. Elizabeth complains but he kisses her cheek and tells her he’s fine and I try like hell to be, too. The longer we hang out in the kitchen together, the easier it becomes, and it stops feeling like I’m suffocating and starts feeling like I’m alive again. I let my eyes linger on the little things like how he shifts to keep his injury from hurting or the way his shirt hangs like it always did in Italy, or how he covers his cheek to stop from laughing when Nick cracks a joke. It starts feeling lighter and lighter when he pulls the spoon out and turns to me to taste it and I feel like I’m on fire because he keeps looking at me and smiling like he’s happy I’m here. I know he is, I get that. But seeing it is different. 

When Elizabeth tells us to lean in for a group picture I don’t hesitate— the opportunity to be photographed in this moment with him is too much to pass up, and the need for closeness only adds to the reasons to do it. She shows us afterwards and I know I probably look too happy but I finally  _ feel _ happy again and that should mean something, so I don’t think much of it. I see the post later and smile long after we’ve all gone to bed. 

He wakes me up by flopping down on the bed, his hair an absolute mess as his arm threatens to escape the sling. I swear at him a great deal for the disruption but he doesn’t move and truthfully I don’t want him to. He must know this. 

“Ford’s been up for like, a solid hour crying. How are you still asleep?” he asks. I shrug and push up to sit upright, thinking it might help calm my beating heart. 

“Guess I was tired,” I say. He doesn’t need to know that I didn’t fall asleep until 4am because I kept playing back everything that had happened during the day with him. 

We go grocery shopping and somehow end up missing half the stuff on Elizabeth’s list, coming out with arms full of things he says he wants to cook before I leave— “All your favorites, it’ll be good, come on.” 

For some reason, him remembering my favorite foods from when I stayed with them last is too much to handle, too. 

In the car, he turns my music off at a red light and glances over to me. Immediately, I feel the tension return and wonder at which point it really left, if it had always been there, had it just been different? This feels different, important, like an all over body ache. 

“We’re the only ones here who have seen it,” he says. “The movie.” I nod and try not to look away from him. “She asked about it when I got back and I didn’t know how to explain what it was like to watch. Not in terms she’d understand,” he trails off.

“Okay,” I mutter, not sure if I mean for it to sound like a question or an acknowledgement of what he’s said but it somehow comes out as both. I can’t feel my joints, they’ve gone cold and I think my head is spinning. I don’t know where this is going and it makes me nauseous to just  _ think _ about the premiere and how unresolved we left everything. Especially now when things seemed normal again, though, admittedly, I knew we could never go back. There would never be “normal” again. 

The light turns green and he drives on. His hand through his hair, I remember biking around Crema from his place to set, how he’d run his hands through his hair and show off how easy it was to ride without holding the handlebars. His voice snaps me out of the daydream. “I don’t know when she’s going to see it because of Ford,” he admits. “She’s been trying to get Luca to send her a copy and I think she might have finally broken him down.” My stomach turns at the thought of him watching it without me. It would be  _ wrong _ , I want to tell him, to watch with her when it’s me you’re kissing. When I still feel your phantom leg pressed against mine in the theater, when our secrets are being thrown out there between the cracks of the scenes. But I can’t tell him that. For perhaps the first time with Armie, I don’t know what to say. We remain quiet for a few blocks until I speak up. 

“Are you going to do more press? Or was that it for you?” It’s the question I’d avoided at all costs up until now. I know he had confessed a few months ago that depending on Ford’s birth, he might not go to all the screenings. It didn’t help that he doesn’t actually  _ enjoy _ press— he’d told me a few times before that it was the part he usually liked the least.  I don’t want to go through it without him, though, especially not if he’d be  _ here  _ watching it with  _ her _ . I didn’t want my experience to be ruined any more than it might already be, and the only reason any of this even seemed manageable to begin with was because he told me in Crema that he’d be by my side when he realized how nervous it made me. 

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he tells me, and I can tell he’s being honest because his eyes are soft when he blinks. “I asked Luca not to give her the movie.” I try not to look too interested despite this sending me reeling. I can’t help but wonder if it’s for all the reasons I want to see it again. “I don’t think I’m ready to watch it with her,” he shrugs, but I can see he’s hiding something. “I can’t imagine what Luca thinks,” he tries to laugh it off. 

“Am I a shitty person for being relieved?” I ask quietly, trying to match the tone of my voice to his almost playful one. Neither of us really hit the mark, though. He looks at me for a moment before returning his eyes to the road and turning. 

“Nah, you’re not a shitty person.” The warmth in his voice is a bit much to handle without explanation but I know I won’t get one, not one I really want, so I pretend I don’t hear the way he’s trying too hard to sound casual. 

I have to remind myself it isn’t smart to be hopeful when he hasn’t given me any real reason to be. I have to remember that the way he looked at me when we talked about the movie meant nothing. That this is all me reading too much into things. It feels like I’m reading too much into things.

I can’t stop reading into things. 

Elizabeth rolls her eyes when she sees what we bought, but ruffled my hair and acquiesced to Armie’s explanation of cooking my favorites. They start cooking together while I sit in the living room to forget him, his son in my arms fast asleep while his daughter demonstrates all the dance moves she was learning at ballet. 

We don’t talk about it, or at least he doesn’t think to bring it up, this tension I feel in the air whenever we’re left alone. It lingers over me, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s all in my head, too. I stare at the ceiling at night and think about how he looked at me after the premiere, how he held my gaze in the theater to calm himself down, how he all but begged me not to say what I needed and wanted to say. That it wasn’t acting. That I fell in love. 

That I can’t seem to fall  _ out _ of love. 

After dinner, Elizabeth mentioned she wouldn’t be going to the next screening and I had to pretend I was sad about it. I caught his eyes and for a moment thought maybe he was pretending, too...but he looked away and kissed her and I sat there and watched because to say something was to admit it was all a sham. 

I excused myself a few minutes later and showered away the image. 

The last night I’m with him, he sneaks into my room after everyone’s gone to bed. He’s carrying a bottle of Balvenie whiskey with a conspiratory smile and hushed tones, his feet bare, his shirt faded, hair still somewhat styled. “Scoot over, here take this.” I’m handed a glass and he pours. I’m just tired enough to wish he’d handed the bottle to me, for us to share. He pours himself some before setting the bottle on the bedside table and lifting the glass to his nose, his eyes closing momentarily. I take advantage and I know I probably shouldn’t but he’s on my bed that’s really just his guest bed and he brought me the whiskey he always jokes about keeping under lock and key as one of his favorites that even  _ I _ wouldn’t be able to try because it’s a  _ Caribbean Cask Timoth _ _ ée _ _ I don’t have an unlimited supply  _ and he’s on my bed and his eyes are closed and I want nothing more than for this to mean to him a fraction of what it means to me. 

He looks over and smiles, extends his glass, clinks it with mine. I watch him take a sip and stare at the glass, the liquid swirling in it. The veins in his wrist shift with each movement, the low light of the room making the whiskey look even more amber and his eyes even more contemplative. His tongue darts over his lip. I look at my own glass and try to savor it, the aroma comforting as he begins talking. “I don’t want things to be weird between us the next time we see each other. You mean a lot to me and I don’t want to fuck this thing up.” Another sip. The whiskey gets trapped on his lip and I resist the urge to wipe it away. We’d been casual my entire trip, his arm draped over me on occasion, my head against his shoulder in the kitchen, silent nods to our intimacy in Crema, even if it was less frequent. Him sitting here feels like a memory, his prized drink symbolic somehow of what he’s saying, how important I must be. My heart races; not even the alcohol soothes it. “You’re probably my best friend,” he says quietly. “I don’t want what Luca thinks to mess with that.” 

My heart plummets to the floor. “What Luca thinks,” I repeat, nodding slowly, taking a generous swig from the glass despite knowing it would pain him to watch so much disappear so quickly. “Right.” 

“Timmy—” 

“It’s okay,” I shake my head, shake him away. “I know it was just acting.”  _ For you. _ I look up at him and feel the warmth spread through my throat and down to my toes. His eyes are sad and it pulls a smile from me because at least there’s that, at least he cares enough for  _ that _ , that sadness and longing for acceptance. He knows he’ll find unconditional support in me and perhaps that’s all he really wants. 

But he brought me 14 year old whiskey and sat on my bed and told me I’m his best friend, and that had to mean something, right? Something  _ more _ than just craving support? 

“Look, I love you, man. You’re my best friend, too,” I tell him, because it’s safe, practiced, at least in this tone. I’ve told him before to get rid of the ache in my chest, finding if it’s said just right, he doesn’t question the confession. “Nothing’s gonna change that.” 

He bumps my shoulder with his and focuses on his glass while I focus on anything but the way the bed dips more with his weight than my own. He leans against me after a moment and smiles faintly, his eyes low and guarded. “It’s going to be weird to see it again,” he says almost too casually. “It still doesn't really feel real, you know?” 

“As if it was a dream,” I nod, looking over and smiling. Some of it still felt like a dream, the moments discarded and tucked away for no one to see— they  _ did  _ feel hidden like dreams. My expression must shift because his does as he meets my eyes and I’m suddenly afraid we’ll spend forever attempting to forget. His voice is warm and deep when he tells me he’s glad it was me, his hand heavy on my leg when his glass is empty and he says he’s sad I have to go, my eyes watery when he hugs me goodnight. All I want from him is some sort of confirmation that this meant something to him, too, that those scenes he was so determined to forget had  _ meant something.  _ I look for a sign, like I always have. I can see it in his eyes when he turns to walk away, that sort of somber question of whether to stay or go. I’d seen it before in Italy when he’d watch me drift off to grab a nightcap in town or say hi to the locals while he wandered home, that same question of  _ is this okay, can I justify this.  _

Somehow I missed it then, the way he was always trying to justify his time with me. It seems clearer now, the movie revealing just how vulnerable we had to become, exposing our insecurities and vulnerabilities not only to each other, but the world. He was still justifying. I was still searching. 

I was still staring at the ceiling when the sun lit the room, when his daughter knocked on my door to ask if I’d watch cartoons with her, when his son began crying. In my exhaust, I clung to him as he made pancakes, my head on his shoulder, chest against his back. He let me for a moment but gently shuffled me to the side with a small smile. Perhaps our midnight rendezvous in the shadows of my borrowed room was just that, borrowed, hidden in the shadows, the intimacy destined to be returned to our memories and forgotten in reality. I think of the day we filmed the dancing scene, the take Luca didn’t use when he held onto me,  _ too intimate, it’s about letting go and being free.  _ I can still hear Luca. Can still hear him telling me to stop looking like a hurt puppy. Can hear Armie telling me he was nervous, can feel his heart racing under my palm between takes, can hear him yelling at Luca and the two of them arguing over his acting choices and Esther speaking french to avoid the others hearing and Armie sinking against the chair and leaning against my shoulder and shaking his head and pushing me to the hall to get space, space, he always wanted space from everything when it became too much and he always wanted me to make it better with an overanimated story or an embrace. 

I sit on the couch and watch him from afar until breakfast is ready, pretend I’m fine when it’s time to leave, pretend I don’t mind that he can’t drive me himself. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, his arm around me, voice in my ear. 

I’d mull over my response for hours at the airport and on the plane, wonder if he’d read into it. I’d text him and tell him I made it back to New York safely and still wonder if  _ he _ wondered what I’d meant, if he’d come to a conclusion. Because the truth is, I’m not sure I said it ironically, subconsciously, intentionally. I just don’t know.

But as he rested against me, his lips too close and too far from my neck, his body pulling away from me too fast so I could leave, the only word I could manage, was a singular, defiant,  _ Later.  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been awhile! I've been going through it and needed some time before I could write again. Hope it was worth the wait! Chapter 4 is going to be... substantial. I have no idea how long it'll take to finish but it will be a monster and it will be worth it.


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